


Dessert

by Subtilior



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Cooking, Food, Gen, Late Night Conversations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:10:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subtilior/pseuds/Subtilior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles savors a meal with Erik.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dessert

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stelline_soup](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=stelline_soup).



> Gift ficlet for **stelline_soup ******, for the 2012 holiday season. You may find it[here](http://xmfc-exchange.livejournal.com/4333.html) as well. Incorporates "cooking" and "cafuné," from the prompt.
> 
> Warnings: some rare meat, distant implication of ableism.

“Here, Charles.”

Erik’s back is to him, the long line of it stooped – then uncoiling up and around, quick as a flash, and the twist beneath that black turtleneck is not what has his own mouth watering. That’s what Charles tells himself.  It’s the smell – gorgeous, dreamlike – the delicious scent of scallops in butter.

“And this is just the appetizer.” Erik's lips quirk up, his eyes flick down – and Charles can only see the soft shadow of his eyelashes because Erik has stooped again, this time to set the plate in front of him with the gritty slide of metal on wood – stooped close enough to brush Charles’ cheek with his breath.

“I hope you like,” Erik says.

“Thank you for making them,” Charles manages – how does Erik expect him to talk,  _how_? With warm breath on his ear and the richness of butter and delicate seafood wafting up from the plate. “I mean: I know they aren’t kosher. But they’re a favorite of mine.”

A quiet laugh. “That’s why you’re eating them all.”

Erik’s hand rests on his neck – only the smallest touch, before long fingers slide up through his hair and back down again, ruffling. Charles hasn’t had a haircut in too long. He loves the sensation of locks falling on his ears, though – on his ears, over his nape: enough for Erik to card through and through again with his hands.

“Time’s wasting, Charles.” The hand vanishes. “Do eat.”

So he does.

* * *

Erik had never said that he enjoyed cooking. Charles had only found it out by accident – when he stumbled downstairs one hot summer night, only a short while after they had come back to the mansion. Erik had looked up from peeking inside a stockpot. Steam had wreathed his face; his eyebrows had been almost comically high up on his brow. His expression: not fatigue, not guilt – but rather, one that said, ‘Caught out. Now what?’

Charles had covered his own surprise well. Had seated himself, and folded his hands in front of him. He remembers now, of all things, his pajamas sticking to his back in the kitchen’s heat, that first time.

“What are you making?”

* * *

“Consommé.” A bowl appears in front of him. “It has to be eaten while it’s still hot.”

“Erik!” It smells amazing, promising so much flavor with not a speck of fat to be seen. A garnish carved out of carrot floats in its red-brown bath. “How on earth did you have time to make this?”

To make it this perfect, he means to say. To clarify the broth, reduce the stock – to achieve such an amber color …

“Charles, I’ve time enough.” An arm round his shoulder, a hand sliding down to his chest – brief pressure, warmth over his heart. “Don’t you want it?”

“Yes,” Charles says, quickly, and takes up a spoonful so as not to lie. And it’s not a lie. The consommé is delicious.

“Good.” Erik's lips brush his cheek; Charles shivers in delight, despite himself, despite everything. He watches Erik pace back to the stove.

Then he has to watch the carrot bob up and down, up and down in the salty broth for a long while. He has to savor it while he can.

* * *

One night had turned into two, two into three. Erik had never given a reason for sleeping so poorly, and Charles had never asked.

Once or twice, he had wondered whether to ask something else instead.  _Do you know me_? Erik’s knowing tilt of an eyebrow, more of an affectation over chess – genuine and curious late at night. That eyebrow, to Charles, implied that he did know him.  _Do you see me?_ Erik’s green eyes fixed on him as he carves and cuts and takes a bite – or more than one, since every dish tastes delicious. That hungry look – surely Erik did see him.

 _Do you want me?_ Erik, staring at him eating – enjoying ….. The intensity of that stare, implying …. Who knows? Charles hopes that it’s not disapproval of his table manners – they’ve long been impeccable.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Erik had asked one night, waving his hand at the laden table.

For a moment, Charles had thought the casual sweep of those long fingers encompassed him as well as the plates, the cutlery, the abundance of food making the kitchen counter creak. “Mind what?”

“Me, doing this. All of this.”

The students had been eating fantastically every day, praising Charles’ invisible kitchen help to the skies.  _Like magic_  – Raven.  _Like my fairy godmother_  – Angel.  _Like a miracle_ – Sean.

At Charles’ silence, Erik had smiled, rueful, and picked up the butter dish. “Of course not. You’re rich. All of this.”

And the butter had gone floating back to the counter, balanced on the gold-bottomed saucer Erik had nicked from the tea set.  The butter had landed in the potatoes Erik had mashed. Charles had laughed at its inglorious fall, despite himself, and Erik had joined him: “You’re rich. Don’t you see?”

* * *

“Main course,” Erik says. “I hope you’re still hungry.”

Charles cranes his neck to see, tries to take in a deep breath through his nose in order to guess – but there in front of him, suddenly, sits a roast leg of lamb entire, on a vast serving dish of stainless steel.

“Oh.” He blinks. The leg is bloody big, and – bloody.  _Oh, dear_. “Erik, it smells wonderful, but – how am I supposed to eat all of this?”

Erik’s thin face, normally set in stern lines, is suddenly mobile. Eyebrows rising, lips curling – a shrug and a wave of both of those lovely long-fingered hands makes him look like – Charles doesn’t know what. A jester; a joke. Or maybe – dismembered and put back together badly.

“Just pick off it. I won’t be insulted.”

“Pick – off it?” But there’s so  _much_ of it. Charles considers; brings his knife to bear on the tender lamb. Erik has sharpened it just for him – it’s bright and perfect, cutting along the grain of the meat with no effort at all.

“There. Is that really so difficult?” Erik’s back is to him.

Charles watches the slice drip juice onto the plate, now porcelain edged in gold. There’s mint sauce. And a dab of mashed potatoes on the side. He takes a bite; chews. Swallows – and moans.

“Not so difficult, then.”

“Not at all,” Charles breathes, when he can manage it. It’s too much: the taste and scent, every savory gush of flavor from each movement of teeth and tongue around the mouthful – it’s like nothing he’s ever eaten, and he tells Erik so.

“You don’t often get them this soft, even so young,” Erik says.

* * *

Charles had lost track of how many meals they had eaten together. Sitting up late, the two of them: Erik telling him about his past, Charles telling him about his hopes for the future. They had batted things back and forth between them: the students, the president, problems and questions and happenings in the world – and even when Erik did not want to talk, he had still cooked. Had served with a flourish, and watched Charles for approval of each dish – had smiled at the praise and brushed his hand over Charles’ hand, forearm, hair – even his face, once. Erik had said it was a bit of jam. Charles had just let him touch, and linger, until he had quirked an eyebrow back and Erik had blushed, and said it was the stove’s heat.

* * *

“And ... dessert.”

Erik's voice is low, and could be dripping with honey. And is that the touch of lips on his cheek again? His ear? Can he tell? For, now, Charles is nearly stupefied with pleasure. He fights to keep his head upright. It’s such a rare indulgence, a meal like this - such wonder for all the senses: taste and smell, and he can see Erik, and hear Erik, and turn to touch and _kiss_ Erik –

“Hey, Prof.”

Cigar smoke burns through the fog of vanilla and cream – and Charles is instantly wide awake.

Logan strolls up behind him. “Late night for it.”

“I’ve told you not to smoke in here.”

Charles feels rather than sees a shrug. Perhaps it’s the creak of leather, audible. He keeps his eyes shut.

“How long you gonna take?”

“As long as I want to take.”

“Yeah, but –”

“Leave.”

“ –  _but_ , Professor, McCoy’s getting worried about the time you’re logging in this thing.”

“Quoth the lumberjack.”

“Ha, ha.”

Logan falls silent for a moment. Then clears his throat. “Out of curiosity –”

“Oh really, it’s just dinner. Here.”

And Charles catches Logan’s mind with Cerebro, relishing the muffled yelp. Indestructible, yes, but Logan also thinks himself impenetrable when he’s anything but. His mind is like a burr sticking to a trouser leg, so he gets dragged along for the ride whether he likes it or not.

“Shit, I’ll never get used to – oh.”

Charles opens his eyes.

There’s Logan, short and tough, taking a deep drag from his cigar. He almost lets ash fall on the table. Catches himself in time.

“See?” Charles folds his hands in front of him. “It’s just dinner.”

“Nice hair, bub. And here you are, all by your lonesome?” One black eyebrow goes up. “Sweet little set-up. But who makes the dinner?”

He says it as though he’s playing a trump card.

Charles surveys his memory of the manor kitchen, so long ago. It’s clean – iron skillet and stockpot and stainless steel dishes polished and shining on the counter. And there are the cherries with cream in their silver bowl in front of him. Such a strange combination, but Charles had loved it once. 

“I make it,” he lies.

“Yeah? How? You burn mac and cheese on a good day.”

And that’s enough, really.

In his memory, Charles runs one hand through his hair. Then, matter-of-fact, he stands up from his seat. “How does anyone make it?”

Logan had gone still. Charles takes a step forward. He finds that he enjoys looking Logan in the eye. A distant enjoyment, though – all the true pleasure has gone out of the evening.

“Right.” Logan fumbles with his cigar. “Yeah. I’ll just – go, then?”

“Do.”

Leather creaks as he turns to leave – then Logan turns back, or at least, his voice is still there. “But you’ll come down in a bit? Cause when I said ‘late night,’ I meant ‘early morning’ – and I wasn’t kidding about McCoy. He told me –”

“I’ll be along, Mr. Howlett.”

“When?”

Logan’s voice is fading. Charles blinks hard as he sits – but not quickly enough, for the memory around him is fading, too. There are shadows falling on his shoulders and over and down, soft and warm, leaving only the fruit and cream in front of him, and the silver of the round bowl gleaming in the dark.

“Soon enough.”

He takes a cherry and puts it in his mouth. Chews. It’s too tart, which is why it’s hard to swallow. That’s what Charles tells himself. If Erik were there to listen, Charles supposes he would smile, and tip his head to one side, and tell Charles he believed him.

Enough.  
  
Charles rolls himself back from the table, and lets the memory go.

“I’m done.”


End file.
